The line goes dead as I lower my phone, my racing mind coming to a dead stop at the truth of the matter as I lose my grip on it. My lifeline slides down my dress and cracks somewhere on the sidewalk, the sound pairing perfectly with my inner destruction.
No matter what I decide to do now, there will be no victor in the war between Butler and Crowne, and there wasn’t in the last, either. The end of our stolen love story was always going to be as I predicted—disastrous. Reason being, Stella had a choice, but I never have.
Even if Easton thinks I do, and Benji thinks I do, even if my father still believes I do—for me, a choice never existed.
Twenty minutes after my father’s toast, when the cake is cut and pictures are taken, I sit across the eight top studying the man I’ve deemed my hero for the entirety of my life. Catching my eye, he stares back at me before tilting his head with a curious look, a grin forming on his lips. Slowly, I lift my cracked phone to him and shake it in prompt. Grin growing, he pulls his own phone from his pocket, playing along. Grabbing my clutch, I walk over to where he sits and reach him just as he opens the email. I press a kiss to his cheek as he curses under his breath and softly whispers my name. Ignoring his attempt to gain my audience for any sort of explanation, I pull back to look him right in the eye. “Congratulations, Daddy. The paper is all yours.”
Again
Sasha Alex Sloan
Natalie
Damon and Holly sit on the other side of the booth gawking at me as I suck copious amounts of frozen tequila through a straw.
“You really quit the paper?” Damon asks.
I nod.
“Even though the law firm admitted to the mix-up in sending that email out?” Holly questions next.
Another nod as I slurp back a healthy dose of strawberry-flavored Cuervo.
“And you’re not speaking to Uncle Nate at all?” Holly prompts again.
I shake my head and continue to wet my dry throat as Damon shifts in the booth and Holly rests her forearms on the table.
“You never told Easton you didn’t file?” She asks.
I reluctantly release my straw. “No.”
“So, you married the most beautiful rock star on the planet—who would basically die for you—and then walked away?”
“If that’s how you see it, then sure,” I spout dryly.
“No,” Damon says, keeping my gaze, “she chose herself.”
Releasing my straw, I nod. “No matter what I did, I was damned. It was like being caught between two immovable boulders while constantly dodging a wrecking ball. I finally just had to let it take me out.”
“Jesus,” Holly says. “But he had a right to be angry.”
“Which one?” I ask as Damon poses the same question simultaneously.
“Tell Easton you didn’t file,” Holly says.
“That’s your solution? Tell my husband that the man he was starting to hate filed for me?”
“See, baby, that’s the whole point,” Damon cuts in, his explanation for Holly. “Fathers typically give their daughters away at a wedding for a reason, which might seem misogynistic in this day and age, but it’s the blessing Nat needs. That was never going to happen, and she couldn’t thrive in her marriage or career because one or the other or both would eventually make her choose. They were already punishing her for it.” Damon shakes his head. “God, that’s so fucked.” He grabs my hand over the table like he did a few weeks ago. “I’m so sorry, Natalie.”
“Technically, your dad wins by default, anyway,” Holly says. “It’s not like you can divorce a parent.” She pauses. “Is that why you quit? To hurt him?”
“No,” my tears threaten and I tamp them down, doing what I have the past week to keep them at bay—letting my anger chase them away.
Anger at the two men who proclaimed to unconditionally love me, but failed to protect me from themselves.
“Nobody’s really right or wrong. That’s the most fucked up part,” Damon concludes after a few minutes. I nod as he keeps my hand while his eyes soften.
“So,” I say, directing my question at Holly. “Will you look after my apartment until I come back? You can squat if you want.”
While Holly’s right in that I can’t divorce a parent, I can distance myself. One day in the future, I’ll forgive my father—but that day isn’t today. Until I do, I’ll be working in Hearst Media’s Chicago office, which I plan on fleeing to with a tequila buzz in a few hours.
Her chin wobbles. “For how long?”